Red Roses
Guilt has no imagination.
It arrives in the form of red roses.
I have come to hate red roses.
Guilt has no imagination.
It cries the same tears
and promises the same promises.
Guilt has no imagination.
It's remorse is short lived,
Forgotten within minutes of apology.
Guilt has no imagination.
You buy me flowers,
then you cry, then you lie.
Guilt has no imagination.
It arrives in the form of red roses.
I have come to hate red roses.
Copyright © Francine Roberts | Year Posted 2010
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